Sherlock on the Discworld
by cautiousAlbatross
Summary: This is a prequel to my other Sherlock/Discworld crossover, The Fall.   Contextual details: This begins, in Discworld terms, shortly after the events of Men At Arms, and in Sherlock terms, at the beginning of A Study In Pink.


After a short time serving in an obscure branch of the Morporkian army (which, amazingly, does exist and at the time consisted of mostly of criminals serving their time and their country), Dr John Watson had decided it was high time he returned to civilian life. He had managed the rather impressive feat of obtaining an injury in an army that hadn't fought a war since before he was bored, and managed to receive an honourable discharge, unlike the man who had injured him. The army was deprived of its only captain and doctor, and John was deprived of a means of survival, however slight it may have been.

His first problem upon returning to the city was finding a place to stay. His second was finding a way to pay for it. Unfortunately, both of these seemed doomed to remain unsolved. He was wandering through Hide Park, considering his situation, when he bumped into an old friend.

"John!" called Mike Stamford, "John Watson!"

"Mike," said John, turning back to him, "Hi, how are you?"

"Oh, not to bad, not to bad. I heard you were in the army, getting stabbed. What happened?"

"I got stabbed," said John, indicating his leg.

"Ah, I see. So you're back in Ankh-Morpork, then?"

"For now. Can't afford it, of course."

"And you wouldn't go anywhere else!"

"Yeah," said John, half-heartedly.

"You should get a flatmate," suggested Mike, "Help you pay the rent."

"Oh, come off it. Who'd want to live with me?"

Mike chuckled slightly.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

"Is he an alchemist, then?" asked John, as Mike led him into the newly rebuilt Alchemists' Guild.

"I don't think so, no."

"What is he, then?"

"I'm not really sure. Look, there he is - ask him yourself. Sherlock, this is John Watson."

John looked over at the dark-haired man peering intently at a glass beaker full of a violently bubbling liquid. The man glanced over at him, then turned back to his work.

"Fourecks or Klatch?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You've obviously just returned from military service, but where from? Fourecks or Klatch?"

"Er, Klatch, but how did you-"

"Well, I say military service, but there isn't a war on now, is there? Obviously, we can't have the Army getting restless, so they're all on training missions abroad. With that tan, you must have been somewhere sunny, and the only two places currently hosting Ankh-Morpork regiments are Fourecks and Klatch."

"That's... How did you know I was in the army?"

"Oh, isn't it obvious? Everything about you just screams military. Look at that limp!"

"Did you tell him about me?" asked John, turning to Mike.

"Haven't had a chance to," replied Mike, "Besides, I wouldn't need to. He's always doing this."

"We'll meet up later, shall we? To look at the flat?" asked Sherlock.

"What... Um, I've only just met you. We know nothing about each other."

"Correction. You know nothing about me. I think I've already proved I know enough about you to be getting on with."

"Well..."

"Excellent. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street. Afternoon."

John was just walking over to the address the mysterious Sherlock Holmes had given him when a black carriage pulled up next to him.

"Get in the carriage," said a voice from inside, "I'm sure I don't need to threaten you, Dr Watson."

John glanced at the side of the carriage, noting the lack of coat of arms, and half-wondered if it mightn't be Lord Vetinari's. But what would the Patrician want with him? Reluctantly, he climbed into the darkened carriage, staring silently at the portly figure hidden in the shadows. He could just about make out the general shape of the man, and his face was entirely obscured.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"An interested party," replied the man.

"What do you want with me?"

"I was wondering whether you might offer me a certain service. I believe you have recently met the man Sherlock Holmes."

"So what?"

"And yet you are planning on moving in with him. I wonder, Dr Watson, whether this is the wisest choice you have ever made."

"I don't think it's any of your business."

"Quite, quite. Your personal life is nothing to do with me. Sherlock Holmes, however..."

"Who are you?"

"I am the closest thing to a friend Sherlock is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy. He would call me his arch-enemy. He does like to be dramatic."

"What do you want from me?"

"Information, about Sherlock. Nothing you would feel uncomfortable divulging, of course, and in exchange for a reasonable sum."

"Why?"

"I worry. Constantly."

"Sorry, but no."

"Very loyal, very quickly, Dr Watson."

"Are we done? Only I have places to be."

"Of course, of course. I think we'll drop you here."

The carriage drew to a halt outside 221 Baker Street, and John got out, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

Sherlock appeared moments later, and rang the bell. An older lady opened the door, smiling broadly when she saw Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" she said, "Come in!"

"Mrs Hudson," replied Sherlock, smiling in turn, "This is Dr Watson."

"Please, call me John," said John, shaking her hand.

"Mrs Hudson here is our landlady. Owes me a favour. A few years ago, her husband was sentenced to death, and I was able to help."

"You stopped her husband from being hanged?"

"Oh, no, I ensured it. Shall we look at the flat?"

"Just up here," said Mrs Hudson, leading the way, "And there's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two."

"Of course we'll be needing two," frowned John.

"Oh, I shouldn't worry, dear, we get all sorts around here. I'll just leave you in peace, now."

"Well, this is nice," said John, looking around, "Very nice. We'll need to clear all this stuff out-"

"Yes, I thought so too," said Sherlock, talking over him, "So I went ahead and moved my stuff in."

"Oh, this is yours?"

"I can move some of it..." Sherlock shifted a pile of papers from a chair onto a table, looked around at the chaos and gave up his half-hearted attempt at tidying.

"So," he said, "What do you think?"

"I think... All right. Let's move it."


End file.
